


Mixed Signals

by WritingsOfAHobbit



Series: Bofur/Reader Stories [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingsOfAHobbit/pseuds/WritingsOfAHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Reader and Bofur butt heads ever since she's joined the company with Gandalf, but then in the battle, she saves his life but gets injured doing so... And while she's resting, asleep, he's all worried she's gonna die (it's not that bad of an injury tho) and confesses he's actually in love with her - only she's not actually asleep and well fluffy fluff fluff lovey dovey and embarrassed Bofur happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixed Signals

You didn’t know what it was, but there was _something_ about that miner. Maybe it was the cocky grin? Maybe it was that ridiculous hat? Maybe it was the never gloomy attitude? Whatever it was, you’d quite like to wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze. You know for a fact that the feeling is mutual.

You joined the company three months into their quest. As an expert weaponsmith, your skills were valuable for the repairing and maintaining of weapons. Gandalf had fetched you from a small town where you were earning your keep, at the request of Thorin Oakenshield. Well, Thorin hadn’t requested you by _name_ , he simply asked for ‘the best weaponsmith you can find’. He certainly had no issues when you were brought forwards.

None of the other dwarrows had issues with you either. You could hold lengthy conversations with almost all of the dwarves; Dwalin and Gloin about the best way to forge and repair weapons, Ori about the best designs, Fili and Kili about the pros and cons of different weapons, Oin about the types of injuries that could be inflicted (although it was less of a conversation and more of a shouting match), Bombur and Bilbo about the best meals to cook when away from home, Dori, Balin and Thorin about the best armour design, and Nori about which was the lightest weapon to carry (though you didn’t dwell on _why_ he was interested by such a thing). You were even able to hold conversations with Bifur (albeit mostly one-sided) about mechanical workings. The only dwarf you couldn’t converse with was Bofur.

You had tried, Mahal knows that. For the first few weeks you were desperate to make friends with all of the dwarves. There was nothing more important when you were on the road. An enemy might just turn their eye during an attack. But Bofur just wasn’t having it. You had tried, and therefore you didn’t feel as guilty.

“I didn’t think he was capable of dislike.” Kili had commented one night, after a particular colourful conversation over dinner. You had only offered to help him clean up, but you might of well have insulted his moustache.

“I’ve never seen him act like this.” Bombur apologizes another day. “I wish I could tell you why he was doing it.”

At first you had assumed that Bofur was just sexist, but it soon became apparent that your gender had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t your career path that upset him, nor was it your mannerisms. At a loss, you gave up trying to make a connection with him. You will never call him friend, so acquaintance will have to do.

Despite your decision to leave him alone, there was a certain sadness within you. A longing to be his friend. He looked at everyone with such trust and respect. Surely you too deserved such a thing? “Try not to dwell on it, Lass.” Balin encouraged. “That’s when mistakes are made.”

So you travelled across Middle Earth, through decaying forests and over enchanted streams, sought shelter in a rotting town and accidentally expelled a dragon from the mountain. You watched the leader of the company, the one you might call king, turn slowly to madness and turn from his family and friends. You watched the flames burn down the town, thinking that four of your company had died, Bofur among them. You felt the relief as you discovered them alive, and the pain when Bofur wouldn’t allow you to welcome him back.

You stood by helplessly as three armies arrived on the doorstep, your company dropped by one and war broke out. “Will you follow me one last time?” A moment of clarity from the king, and the wall between isolation and freedom was broken down.

You charged into battle alongside your friends, throwing yourself into war. You had missed the adrenaline of the fight, the satisfaction of metal against metal and metal against flesh. You weren’t as graceful as the elves, who could slay several foes in a single swoop, but you did your best.

Thorin, Fili, Kili and Dwalin removed themselves from the fight after a short time, searching out the beast that called for war on your doorstep. The company turned to Dain for leadership, fighting alongside warriors of the Iron Hills to reclaim a lonely mountain.

“Khayum thane!” Gloin barrels past you, in pursuit of three fleeing goblins. He is followed by five more cretins, each more ugly than the last.

You make quick work of the orc you’re faced with, before following the accountant.

"Have you seen the others?" You shout over the noise of the battle.

Going shakes his head, beard flapping wildly. "Not since Thorin took off. See you in victory!" He throws himself into a pack of orcs, disappearing from your sight.

You grin, turning in your heel and looking for your next target. There doesn't seem to be anyone in desperate need of help. Dwarrows and elves are fighting side by side, easily taking down those who dare oppose them. None of the former lakemen can be seen, so you guess that they're in Dale. They're hardly trained fighters and will need all the help they can get.

The battle seems to be thinning as you cross the field. At the very least, the bodies are mounting up. It's a pleasing sight to see so many orcs and goblins on the ground.  Every now and then you see a dwarf, a human or an elf, but their numbers are low.

A desperate, startled shout pulls you up short. You _know_ that voice.  You heard it in the goblin tunnels, in the treetops of Mirkwood and in the wine barrels.

You scan your surroundings and quickly locate him. The fool has pitched himself again three of the ugliest looking orcs you have ever seen. Not even a mother could love those faces.

Without a second thought you rush towards him, weapons drawn. You cut one orc down, its blood spraying across the dirt. "What are you doing?" Bofur shouts, swinging his mattock to block the relentless blows from the orc.

"Helping!" You draw the attention of the second orc with a sharp jab towards its kneecap. It misses, but it still draws attention.

"I don't need your help!"

If your eyesight wasn't so important right now, you would have rolled your eyes until they faced the back of your head. "It certainly looks like you do!" Your blade slices through the thigh of your orc and he falls to the ground. You plant your foot firmly in its chest and it sprawls across the ground.

"Well I don't!" Bofur turns to glare at you. "Why do y-"

" _Bofur_!"

In the dwarfs momentary loss of concentration the orc takes advantage. It doesn't manage to cut Bofur, but it does knock him to the ground.

Bofur lands in shock, his mattock dropping from his hand.  Without a second thought you throw yourself in front of him, blocking the orcs access.

The orc doesn't hesitate, and you wonder if it can even distinguish between targets. It's rusty, infection covered blade swings wildly through the air. The only thing you can do is block it and hope that Bofur gets back on his feet. He's still shouting curses from the floor, but it does sound like he's trying to stand.

"Anytime you would like to help!" You shout over your shoulder. Frustration mixing with adrenaline and a little bit of fear.

The orc is forcing you back, and unless Bofur hurries, you're going to stand on him.

You take another step and your heel knocks against something. You stumble and over balance. Your back hits the floor with a painful thud, and you come face to face with the orc that you had previously slain. Even in death the things are a nuisance.

The orc you had been facing advances towards you, sword raised high in victory. _'Any time now, Bofur'._ A glance to your left has you panicking: Bofur has been distracted by another orc and seems completely oblivious to your current situation.

You try to scramble to your feet, or get your weapon or _something,_ but you're not quick enough. The orc raises his weapon and brings the handle down on your head.

Everything goes black.

\--

Your head hurts so much that you think it must be split open from top to bottom. The pain travels down your neck and branches out across your shoulder.  You really did take a beating. If it weren't for the abnormally thick skulls that dwarves were blessed with, you'd likely be dead.

Death might just be preferable to the pain that you're feeling now.  You'd like to open your eyes and sit up, figure out where you are, but even moving your eyes under closed lids hurts your head.  You resign to laying as still as possible.

Slowly you push through the pain, attempting to work your surroundings. Whatever you're laying against is softer than solid ground, but you can still feel the rise and fall of the soil beneath you. You slowly realise that it's a medical cot, or at least a makeshift one. You also realise that you are not alone. There is someone talking to you.

"And it was hard for us to be accepted." He appears to be talking to you, and you appear to have missed a lot of the conversation. "There was the whole trust issue. Then you come along and everyone just accepts you. It was just difficult to accept.  I suppose I should have accepted you like I wanted to be accepted, but people have always said that I have a stubborn streak. It was incredibly unfair on you, and by the time that I had realised I was being a jerk, you had given up on me. Not that I should’ve expected anything else but… you know.”

No. You _didn’t_ know. And you would tell him such if your blasted head would just _stop hurting_.

“And at some point I figured that it might just be best to leave you be. Someone like you doesn’t need someone like me getting in the way of their life. So I thought I’d make a difference quietly, you know?”

The answer was still _no_.

“I started doing all these little, unnoticeable things for you. I didn’t expect you to notice them, but I still enjoyed doing them. In the goblin tunnels when you were thrown out of the bridge when it landed? That was me. I didn’t know that the great oaf was going to try and crush us, but the thought was there. Then I helped you into that tree when you nearly missed the branch. Bifur helped too but it was mainly me. Then I was the one that found all the really nice herbs at Beorn’s and left them in the bathroom.”

Bofur carries on talking until he’s detailed all of his kind actions throughout the quest. Some of them you would have marked down to chance, such as falling on him whilst cocooned in a spider’s web, and others you wouldn’t have noticed at all, such as a swift kick to a few rude men in Laketown. You felt a little bad for not noticing these things, but at the same time you thought he was ignoring you. You thought he _hated_ you.

“And, you see, the funny thing is that one thing led to another and I fell in love with you somewhere along the way.”

Well _that_ cleared the headache!

“And I suppose I’m only telling you this now ‘cause I’m afraid of what’s going to happen and all, but it’s the truth regardless. I can’t bear the thought of you dying because of me, and thinking ill of me for the rest of eternity. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing that if you _do_ die, you’ll be harbouring indifference or hate towards me until I’m able to put you right. So there we have it. I. Am. In _love_. With _you_.”

There’s a moment of silence as you muster the strength to speak. “You’re an absolute nightmare.”

“What.”

You crack open an eye and see a _very_ pale Bofur sat cross-legged on the floor beside you. His face is as white as a summer’s cloud, except for two uneven splotches of pink on his cheeks. His eyebrows are residing somewhere underneath his hat and you can see his irises fully, for his eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

“I said,” you crack the other eye open, “you’re an absolute nightmare.”

“H-how much…? How long have you…?”

“Everything from you finding it hard to be accepted.” You fix him with the sternest look you can muster. “If it didn’t feel like Erebor had been brought down on my head, I’d kick your backside back to the mine that it crawled out from.”

Bofur has the decency to look rather sheepish. He ducks his head and tugs on the flaps of his hat. “You weren’t meant to hear any of that.”

“Hear what? The closest thing to an apology I’m likely to get? Or the lovely things you’ve done for me? Or perhaps you were referring to the confession?”

Bofur mumbles something into his jacket that sounds like ‘all of it’, although it comes out more like ‘aph omph if’.

Careful not to jar your head, you reach out and kick Bofur’s thigh. He yelps, head snapping up. “You make me feel bad about everything, but I’m not allowed to hear the apology? Were you ever going to tell me?”

Bofur looks away and shifts uncomfortably, another sign for ‘no’.

“Bofur!”

“Well I didn’t know how to go about it!” he protests. “You had every right to hate me, so there was going to be no opportunity to apologise! Then you nearly get yourself killed protecting me, so I thought that might be a good time to say something.”

“You’re unbelievable!”

Bofur’s moustache twitches. “Are you still mad at me or…”

“Of course I’m still mad at you! You were rotten to me for nearly 10 months! It’s going to take more than a few minutes to make it up to me!”

Bofur casts his eyes downwards, and you feel genuine pity for him.

“However, I do know how you can start making it up to me.”

Bofur looks up hopefully.

“I’d quite like a kiss.” 


End file.
